


sometimes a little pun goes a long way

by callme24601



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Artist Grantaire, F/M, Female Enjolras, Law School, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Tattooed Grantaire, Washington D.C., female Enjolras who wants to shatter the glass ceiling and stomp on it, more poc than dear old vic wrote
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22963261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callme24601/pseuds/callme24601
Summary: DC. Now.Female!Enjorlas is tired of the world's bs and is determined to fix it.She's devoted her life to make the universe a little better, and the universe has given her a soulmark in return.and it's apparently it's a fucking pun.----Soulmate AU: you receive your soulmate when you make a life-changing decision.Enjorlas received hers when she decided that she didn't want to be her grandfather's perfect southern belle from Louisiana.Grantaire has other's people work on his skin but not the universe's.
Relationships: Combeferre/Éponine Thénardier, Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Female Enjolras/ Grantaire, Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	sometimes a little pun goes a long way

Sometimes, Enjorlas didn't know how to feel about the world she lived in. 

No- that's not completely true. 

She knew that she wanted to minimize the wealth disparity, to destroy that ability of one person single-handedly having enough money to end world hunger two times over and to try her utmost to kill corruption at the core of most world governments. 

She knew that her icons were Marsha, Malala, and Greta Thunberg, and that she hated Trump and Boris Johnson. These were simple facts of her life, things she's done as easily as breathing or refusing to be a perfect hostess, almost a Southern belle of ye olden days from Louisana. 

But she didn't know how to feel about soulmates. Her soulmate, in particular.

Ever since she received her mark at 20, at the exact moment she graduated from Tulane University with honors in Political Science and Environmental Studies, decided to remove herself from her Republican grandfather's will and decide to go to Georgetown Law, she was confused. Unmarked people were not common, and still faced discrimination, but Enjorlas was ready to fight through that and make her mark on a world seemingly stacked against her. And the universe gave her a single letter: a capital R, hurriedly scribbled, tucked away in the hollow between her collarbones. 

It's an R that she keeps covered with concealer, except in the townhome that she shares with Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, and Eponine, because paying rent in DC alone would make anyone cry. The only reason she doesn't cover it is during her freshman year, during her first and only participation in a party at Georgetown, she came home, passed out in their leaky bathtub, where Eponine found her and got her to bed. 

The morning after that, she sat down, horribly hungover, told the rest of her roommates, showed them the tiny R on her body, and vowed never to go to a law school party to get wasted. They ate Joly's chocolate chip pancakes and haven't talked to her about it since. It's good, she thought. She's a busy woman, and she doesn't have time to split her focus now. So many tell her that "Your soulmate is your other half," and she's just smiled and said that she knows she's a whole of a human being, thank you very much.

It's an R that she'd only seen in a foggy bathroom mirror before she covered it up before going to her classes and working to sit inside that domed building that she sees every day on her commute.

Sometimes, during a maudlin moment, maybe at the end of a long week of classes and her unpaid internship for Madame Fantine at the National Woman's Law Center, she traces it on her skin.

It's a small, graceful thing, something that looks like it'll fly right off her skin. 

It's an R she knows every well, that has been her confusing companion for almost half a decade. 

It's an R that's now staring at her in the corner of a painting in vivid reds and oranges, simply titled WILDFIRE. 

She's at a repurposed naval munitions factory in Old Town Alexandria VA, now divvied up into spaces for artists to highlight their work and garner some sales. She's agreed to meet Eponine and her friend Grantaire, at the opening of his art at this gallery. She met him once last year at their ABC meeting, their program to help immigrant families who need help settling into DC and the surrounding area by helping them perfect their English, know their rights, and find financial security. 

She remembered speaking to him about art therapy, giving him the ABC email, and the response that never came. She shelved the program, even though Eponine said that Grantaire would get back to her, that he was just having a rough time settling into the city, that he was just unorganized. She remembered smiling at Eponine and replying that it's pretty clear that he's not free for this level of commitment, and that was that. 

She only came here, braving almost an hour's commute, because Eponine had bribed her with food at a local restaurant that had a happy hour for raw oysters. She knows that many see her at best as withdrawn and at worst as a frigid bitch and that some are surprised to know that she enjoys a good meal as much as the next person. 

She's debating if those raw oysters are worth the confusion that is racing through her, that debate that is already beginning to start up between her drive and her desire for that work-life balance that her friends around her have achieved, balancing their soulmates and their internships, their volunteering. 

She glances down to her right, trying to see the name of the artist, but there's only a sentence saying that it's all proceeds will go to a wildlife foundation in Australia.  
The painting itself on a canvas that takes up half of a wall, a textured mass of swirls that contains hints of her favorite color, a crimson that looks almost like blood. She nods at the curly-haired teenager that's manning the tiny desk in a corner of the space, who looks like he's doing some form of math, judging by the calculator that sits beside him. 

She glances down at her beat-up iPhone 6, something that's she's stubbornly held on to, even though its battery life is worth about three hours of screen time (it's nothing a power bank can't fix). In her mind, Apple doesn't need more revenue, the idea of obsoleteness is causing tons and tons of waste. The cracked screen contains a text from Ep, saying that she's coming back from getting snacks and that Grantaire and she are headed back now. At least, that's what Enjorlas guesses it says, as Ep has always been fond of texting in as little characters as possible. 

"Enj!" 

Enjorlas turns to see Eponine briskly walking towards her, her hair stuffed under her ever-present newsboy cap, and her overalls splattered with the remnants of her latest mural she's working on in the DC streets. Beside her, Enjorlas sees Grantaire walking sedately, looking much more put together than the time she last saw him, with no paint on his rose-colored suit, only a smear of gold paint drawing attention to the detailed art that's permanently on his already golden skin. 

"I see you found Grantaire's art already!" Eponine says from a distance, smiling.

Enjorlas freezes a little, and she's struggling to maintain her composure as she realizes. 

Grantaire's art. Grantaire. Who's an immigrant from France, whose family immigrated to Marseille during the 1960s from North Africa. 

Grantaire, who speaks French, and who loves a good pun. 

Even with her rudimentary French, she understands. Grantaire. Grand R. 

Like the capital R that sits at the base of her throat, that she never expected. 

And from the way that Eponine's eyes flit from Enjorlas' stunned face to the corner of the painting to the hollow of Enjorlas' throat, she knows too. 

Behind her, Grantaire approaches, and Enjorlas is still trying to compose herself, trying to find her professional face, the one she uses at work, in the metro, and as she smiles at him, she hopes she succeeds.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Hope you enjoyed, and as it's my first serious fanfic, any and all feedback is appreciated.  
> Every single place I talk about in this work is real, and you should go visit the Torpedo Factory Art Center in Alexandria, VA.  
> Also, if you or someone you know is a beta, please help me as my only beta is grammarly at the moment.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> -k


End file.
